


Shorty and the Beast

by kaitekat



Series: Twisted Tales [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:09:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaitekat/pseuds/kaitekat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once-upon-a-times and might-have-beens paint a story most fair. A beauty stalks a tower in a guise most foul, and only one bot has optics to see past the grisly exterior. AU, crack. Based on the classic fairy tale 'Beauty and the Beast'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for pure, unadulterated crack. (No, really, this only pretends to have a plot.) Also, a nod to all those fantastic writers out there who have written a version of this classic fairy tale. (There's really too many to name them all.)
> 
> All characters involved in this story are not OC's. Their identities will become apparent later (if they aren't already).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a Dark and Stormy Night.

Once upon a time, on a tiny little planet that circled a tiny little star way out in the middle of nowhere, there stood a tall, shining tower surrounded by a deep forest of even taller trees. And within the tower resided a tall and beautiful mech. His plating gleamed sunshine yellow, even in the darkest nights. His curves accentuated his chassis in lines that would make the most hardened artist weep. His frame was neither too tall nor too short, his girth neither too stout nor too slight.

All in all, the mech was easily the most beautiful bot for klicks; possibly even further. And the problem was that he knew it. He cared for nothing but his appearance. A cleaning rag was his closest companion, a bottle of polish his dearest lover. Dust was his rival; grime a bitter and hated enemy. He would spend hours before his mirrors to ensure that his paint was just so.

All this, perhaps, could have been forgiven if the beautiful mech possessed a loving spark. However, he was cold and selfish, caring only for his own comfort. He was not intentionally cruel, but neither did he seem to trouble himself a whit for the well-being of others, even those who had served his family for generations.

He had not always been thus.

Once he had been a spark as bright and shining as the star his planet circled. But his creators had passed on early in his life, leaving him alone and solitary in his station. His servants tried to make up for the lack, but their master grew aloof and distant in his grief. He came to take comfort in the grooming rituals his creators had taught him until the rituals themselves consumed him.

The servants watched, helpless, as their bright young master grew in to a cold and haughty mech. And they despaired that nothing could crack the beautiful and bitter plating that he had built around his spark.

But fate can be relentless, even if its path seems twisted and strange at times. And lonely and dark beginnings can lead to bright and happy endings, if you just believe.

 

It was a dark and stormy night. (Well, it _was_. These things never seem to happen on bright sunny days that smell of lilacs and daisies. Blame it on the Universal Cliché Agreement, if you will.) Thick, inky clouds blotted out the sky, releasing torrents of rain on to the battered fields and forests. Heavy winds whipped through branches and rustled through high grasses; a multitude of voices howling through the darkness. Every now and then, the darkness was split by a white-hot flash of lightning, followed closely by the sharp crack of thunder.

All in all, it was an utterly wretched night to be out and about. Any sane bot would be tucked safely away at home with a cube of warmed energon and a bookfile, perhaps.

The mech trundling along the overgrown forest road in alt mode wouldn't be considered sane by many. (He didn't really have an issue with that; sanity is overrated, after all.)

He might have been red, once. Now, mud and grime coated every bit of his surface. His windshield was chipped and cracked; lines crisscrossing crazily across the glass like some imitation of a drunken spider's web. Bits of grass and ferns seemed to be jammed in to his tires and wheel wells. The lines of his alt mode might have been attractive, but it was impossible to tell under the thick coating of debris and muck. Only the warm, steady glow of his headlights cutting through the gloom belayed his sorry appearance.

The forest opened up in to a field, and the rain drummed down on his roof harder than ever. But the mech continued on, his goal now in sight. The tall, shining tower arose from the darkness, its smooth white walls repelling the worst ravages of the storm. He quickened his pace, his wheels spinning in the mud as he passed through the high gate (left open in the attendants haste to retreat from the storm? Perhaps…but then again, perhaps not). He passed the tall crystal spires of the gardens; their refracted surfaces dark and slick from the hammering rain.

Finally, he pulled right up to the front door of the tall, shining tower, dripping mud and rain all over the entrance. The dirty mech paused briefly as if gathering himself together, and released a loud, jarring note by way of his horn.

There was no answer. The mech huffed softly, and then sounded off again; a single long wail rising above the wind and thunder.

He was readying himself for a third attempt when the door burst open; light and heat an almost visible wave pouring out from the threshold. A tall figure stood within the light, his perfect sunshine yellow paint gleaming softly. Annoyance was written clear across his fine features. "What," the impossibly beautiful mech ground out, "do you want?"

"Shelter," the dirty stranger said, his voice weak and soft. He shuddered in the cold, shaking bits of mud on to the smooth grey flagstones. "Just for the night," he added pitifully, "some place out of the storm. Please, I beg you."

The gleaming mech gave him a slow, disdainful once-over, his gaze lingering on his mud-splattered roof and grime-encrusted wheels. "Maybe a night out in the rain will clean you up some," he suggested. "But you're not coming in and getting my tower all over in mud. I don't need any slagging vagabonds bringing who-knows-what inside. Get lost."

"Please," the stranger said, his voice wavering, "won't you reconsider? Even the dirtiest covering can hide a shining spark. It is, after all, what's within that matters."

His only response was a snort, and the beautiful mech stepped back, his hand already pushing the door closed. And then there was an impossibly loud crack of thunder, and the sky flashed white, and suddenly the mech in the doorway froze, his optics wide as he realized that his body was no longer obeying him, and he stood motionless as the stranger before him started to move.

The dirty, muddy mech was transforming; the muck and grime sloughing off as his parts shifted around. The scratches and cracks in his paintjob melted in to a smooth, unmarred finish, gleaming brilliantly in the warm light that cascaded out from the entrance. As the stranger finished his transformation, the mech in the doorway abruptly realized that his guest was quite possibly nearly as beautiful as himself.

"Well," the now radiant stranger said, his red and black plating gleaming in the darkness, "I guess that's that. You really should've reconsidered." He grinned widely at his captive audience of one. "Now I'm gonna have to punish you. Let's see…since you seem to hate ugliness so much, let's change that pretty form of yours, shall we?" And he reached out to touch the restrained mech just over his spark. And, impossibly, the haughty, beautiful mech began to change.

It wasn't much like a normal transformation at all. His spark flared with a singularly exquisite pain and he tried to shout; to scream in agony, but his voice refused to work. His mouth opened soundlessly as he fell to his knees against the cold stone floor, his head thrown back and his optics powered down against what seemed to be blinding light. It was as if he was melting, somehow; he wondered suddenly if this was what dying felt like. And then abruptly it was over. He slumped to the ground in relief, sprawling without regard for propriety against the flagstones, not bothering to power up his optics. And from somewhere far above, the impossibly beautiful strange began to speak.

"It's too bad about your servants, but rules are rules, after all. I'll have to change them to something more suitable, too. Anyways, you've got ten vorns. If you can't find someone to love and accept you despite your current appearance, you'll be stuck like that forever. Good luck!"

Another flash, and the warm, bright presence of the stranger was gone. And the once-beautiful mech pulled himself up and slowly opened his eyes to look down at himself.

And then he started to scream.


	2. Bumblebee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: This story will be made up of lots of little parts, generally around 500 words or so a piece. I won't write longer 'chapters' for this story, but I do hope you enjoy it anyways.

Altihex was a tiny town; far from the bustling metropolis of Iacon and its multitude of tall spires and towers. It lay nestled in a wide valley, surrounded by high, rugged peaks that reached up to the sky with grasping talons. To the south lay the Energon mine that kept the town running, just productive enough with the work of a dedicated populace. To the north was the Forest, through which the Old Road ran. Not many used it these days; while it was technically a shorter route to Polyhex, the road itself was rutted and overgrown with creeping organic vegetation. It was much easier to use the West Road and loop around to the nearest Bridge.

The town itself was fairly unremarkable as such places were. The streets were lined with small, neat domes, each housing no more than a few bots each. There were shops and businesses and the Energon mine, of course, but none of these were much of a draw for tourists or travelers. Nothing interesting ever happened in Altihex. (Well, unless you count Starscream's twice-daily rants on how he would be a much better Hunter than Megatron, but after the first few renditions, you'd heard it all anyways. Quite literally; Starscream wasn't much for variation. And they generally ended the same way, too, in the shape of Megatron's fist hitting Starscream's helm. Megatron apparently shared his love of repetition.)

However, despite the mundanity, Bumblebee loved his little town. He loved the wide boulevards of the North Quarter where the oldsters would sit and talk about vorns gone by. (He liked sitting nearby to listen on occasion, because Kup had a lot of interesting stories and if even half of them were true he'd lived a very interesting life. Although, even Bumblebee wasn't certain he could give credence to an army of a thousand bots storming through their quiet valley, only to be held off by a small ragtag team of bots lead by a flashy red mech with mystical powers.) He loved the narrow streets of the East Quarter through which some of his wilder neighbors would race under the twin lights of the moons until the town's lone Enforcer chased them off. (He wanted to join them, just once; as much for the thrill of the escape as for the thrill of the race. Arcee always said that it was good to be a little bad once in awhile – it let people appreciate you all the more. Bumblebee wasn't certain of the logic in that, but he definitely appreciated Arcee. It was kind of hard not to.) He loved the quiet hum of the West Quarter, full of homes and the lone educational center where younglings raced and played and tried their very hardest to squash as much fun as possible in to their quarter-joor break before trudging back to classes. (It wasn't so long ago that he was one of those younglings, with Cliffjumper in overprotective mode facing down bullies twice his size at the least infraction. Most of their classmates soon learned that it was best to treat Bumblebee with respect, at least when his crazy big brother was within radius. The remaining few tended to end up with dented plating what seemed like once every other solar cycle. Bumblebee loved his brother dearly, but he had to admit he was something of a hothead.)

But what he loved perhaps the most of all was the South Quarter, with its thriving market full of colorful stalls and equally colorful bots hawking their wares. There was always a little taste of Outside here: in the sheen of a bright pendant, of which the likes were lately gracing the plating of the Towers mechs (or so the vendor said) or the tangled mess of wires of the latest upgrade that was sure to make your systems run just a bit faster, a bit sharper. But more than the trinkets and gadgets, Bumblebee loved the _people_ – the expressions that flitted across their faceplates as they haggled cheerfully (and sometimes _not_ ) to get the best possible deal on their goods. The market was where his friends and neighbors seemed to come alive more than anywhere else.

There was Wheeljack, cheerfully rolling in his latest invention, paying no mind to the heckling of Rumble and Frenzy who wanted to know how this one would blow up. And over there was Blaster, drawing a small crowd of friends as he put on an impromptu dance display in front of an amused vendor selling music-chips. Megatron stood some distance from the weapons merchant, somehow looking studiously bored and keeping an optic on the stall at the same time. Skywarp and Thundercracker, as ever, were not far away, Thundercracker calm and quiet and Skywarp visibly vibrating on his perch, craning his helm towards Megatron every few klicks before Thundercracker yanked him back.

And Cliffjumper was, as always on First Market Orn, parked in front of the weapons merchant, simultaneously eyeing the new shipment with greedy optics and shoving for elbow room with Starscream. The vendor dealt with them both with weary patience, making sure that neither shoved too far towards his precious goods.

It was just another day in Altihex, with nothing particular out of the ordinary. Bumblebee lifted his faceplate to the warm spring sunshine and smiled. _Today will be a good day_.


	3. Little Town

It was just another day in Altihex, and Cliffjumper was _bored_.

It seemed like nothing in this dried up little town ever changed. The biggest excitement was when a new shipment rolled in, and most of the time that was just mundane goods required for basic sustenance. Oh, there was the new shipment of weapons that had just come in. He'd been looking over them with sharp optics and there were some gorgeous pieces to admire, although still nothing that beat his personally modified arm cannon. Cliffjumper was smugly proud of _that_ little piece, although Smokescreen had mentioned more than once that it was an utterly useless upgrade since the most danger their town ever faced was the rare rogue organic from the Forest, and that was what they had a Hunter for, anyway. Cliffjumper always argued back that it was always good to be prepared; after all, you never knew what could be waiting in the wings to jump out at you. Smokescreen would retort that he just liked firepower, which Cliffjumper couldn't really refute.

Smokescreen was currently off on a trading trip, and Cliffjumper wished, for just a moment, that he was out there with him. At least then he would be away from this tiny town and its quiet streets and absolute lack of anything interesting. But Smokescreen was the one with the contacts, and neither of them felt very comfortable leaving Bumblebee alone. It wasn't that they didn't trust their neighbors – well, they trusted most of them; Cliffjumper wouldn't trust Starscream with an empty canister, and Megatron gave him the creeps – but Bumblebee was the sparkling of the family and, despite his upcoming Promising, it was hard to remember he wasn't still the little brother that Cliffjumper chased schoolyard bullies around for. Bumblebee put up with their coddling for the most part with his customary good nature, only rarely telling them with any kind of firmness to knock it off. (When he did, Cliffjumper and Smokescreen complied with alacrity. Bumblebee was sweet and easy-going, but when he told you to jump, you were generally already in the air before the words left his vocalizer. It was a devastating power and one that he, thankfully, used rarely.)

Maybe after the Promising he would feel comfortable enough to leave for a time. Arcee was strong and sharp and unwilling to take nonsense from anyone. She complimented Bumblebee nicely, and it was easy for anyone to see that the two of them were in love. Bumblebee's smile was always a little brighter when she was around, and her manner was a little more at ease when he was in her sight. It was a good match, and practically the whole town agreed. The Promising ceremony was scheduled to take place in the next few orns, and they were to be Bonded in a vorn.

Yeah, that would work. He'd talk to Smokescreen once he got back. Cliffjumper wasn't really sure he'd want to become a trader, too – he wasn't really one for the bargaining table, for starters – but maybe just seeing something of the outside world would sate just a little of the wanderlust that was stirring him up lately.

And maybe – just maybe – he'd get a little of the adventure he was craving.

 

"Come now," Starscream said silkily, "it's hardly _seemly_ for a bot of your…stature to be so enamored of a weapon that size."

"Go slag yourself," Cliffjumper retorted, caressing his cannon.

"No, I don't think I will. It would be much more fun to…"

The two were just leaving the market; well, Cliffjumper was leaving and Starscream was following him with obvious intentions, given the gleam in his optics. Bumblebee took one look at the situation in the offing and zipped over to intervene before things could get out of hand. "CJ!" he said brightly, grabbing his hand. "Are you ready to go home yet?"

"Well…"

"Arcee's coming over for dinner. You haven't forgotten, have you? You promised to help me get ready."

"Yes, _do_ run along," Starscream said, smiling wickedly. "After all, we all know just how talented you are in the kitchen…"

"Why, you…!" Cliffjumper lunged towards the jet, but Bumblebee hauled back on his arm.

"CJ!" Bumblebee cast around for a distraction. The crowd in the market was thinning as the day wore on, and those who remained were staying conspicuously out of reach. No one wanted to be near when the inevitable explosion occurred. No one, but…over there, loitering by the wall! Bumblebee brightened as he spotted Thundercracker drifting closer with Skywarp in tow. Thundercracker must have seen the somewhat desperate look in Bumblebee's optics because he sighed and joined the fray.

"Starscream," he interrupted, neatly stepping in front of the jet. Starscream scowled but Thundercracker folded his arms and gave him a Look. "'Warp wanted to ask you something."

"Huh? Oh, yeah!" Skywarp bounced over the rest of the way, grinning madly. "So, 'Screamer, I was thinking…"

"You, thinking? Primus preserve us." Skywarp didn't even waver under Starscream's disdainful comment, latching on to his arm in high spirits. Bumblebee sent Thundercracker a grateful look. _Thank you,_ his optics said.

Thundercracker shot him a fleeting crooked smile before turning back to his trine mates. Bumblebee took that for the hint it was and tugged on Cliffjumper's arm. They left the market square in silence, although not without Cliffjumper throwing a few annoyed glances over his shoulder. Bumblebee let out a sigh of relief and Cliffjumper shot him a look, his mouth twisting up into a wry smile.

"I could've taken him," Cliffjumper said, just to be clear.

"I know," Bumblebee replied. Then he grinned mischievously. "But could you take Arcee if we make her wait?"

Cliffjumper laughed at that, and Bumblebee knew that his foul mood had been broken. He smiled to himself and quickened his pace, dragging his brother along with him.

After all, he wasn't certain if he could take Arcee if they made her wait, either.


	4. No Matter What

"Looks like a storm is coming," Arcee said later that night, peering out the window. "When's your brother due back?"

"Not for another day or so," Bumblebee replied. "He'll probably wait out the storm at one of the rest stops."

"Hopefully he doesn't gamble away all of his profit," Cliffjumper quipped, only half in jest.

"He needs a keeper," Arcee said and Bumblebee swallowed a laugh.

Cliffjumper grinned at her. "What, you volunteering?"

"Pass. I'll have enough on my plate just watching this one," she said, jerking her thumb at Bumblebee.

"Hey!"

"Point," Cliffjumper acknowledged. Bumblebee glowered at both of them.

"Betrayed," he said tragically, "by my own kin. What is the world coming too?"

"We're not kin yet, my mech," Arcee pointed out.

"You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"Hmmm…" Arcee turned back to the window as if in consideration, tapping a finger against her chin. Bumblebee sat up straight as if in alarm.

"Dearest? You're not forsaking me on top of that last betrayal, are you?"

"I'll let you know," Arcee replied loftily and Bumblebee grabbed her by the hand and pulled her towards him.

"We'll see about _that_ …"

"Oh, gag me," Cliffjumper muttered, covering his optics. "Will you two get a room? Some of us are still trying to process dinner."

Arcee laughed, nuzzling Bumblebee's helm before pushing him away. Bumblebee grinned sheepishly and let her go. "Someday," Arcee said to Cliffjumper, her optics gleaming, "there will come a time when you will fall in love, and I'll be here to say 'I told you so'. And laugh at you. A lot."

Cliffjumper shuddered. "Don't even joke like that." He mock-protested. "Act like one of you love-sick goons at the drop of a screw? I'd rather clear organic growth."

"Well, I do hear that Megatron is looking for someone to help clear the forest of deadfall…" Bumblebee said helpfully. Cliffjumper shoved him off of his chair. Bumblebee stood and shoved back. Things quickly devolved from there until Arcee laughingly jumped in and beat them both back.

 

Much later, after Arcee had gone home and the brothers were just about to engage their recharge protocols, Bumblebee said, seemingly out of the blue, "we'll always be together, right?"

Cliffjumper's optics flashed in surprise. "Huh?"

Bumblebee ducked his helm bashfully. "Well, I mean. Smokey is always going off on some trading trip. And I know you don't want to be stuck in this town forever…"

Cliffjumper looked out the window, recalling his earlier thoughts. The sky was dark and heavy with storm clouds, the rain still only threatening to fall. It wasn't a night he'd like to be out in, perhaps, but still… "Well, yeah. This place is kind of boring. I want to see what's out there, you know? There has to be more than just this."

"Not really," Bumblebee admitted. "I have everything I need right here. But…I think I can understand a little." He paused, seeming to stare off at nothing. Outside, the rain began to fall, fat drops pattering against the window. "I'll miss you," he finally announced. "I don't know what it would be like without you here."

"Well, I'm not going yet. Still got to get you safely hitched to Arcee, after all. She'd kick my aft if I left before then."

Bumblebee smiled a little. "I know."

"Hey," Cliffjumper said abruptly. "No matter how far we go, we're still together." He reached over and thumped his hand over Bumblebee's spark chamber. "Right here. And no amount of distance can change that."

Bumblebee stared at him, wide-opticked. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"

"Shut up, I'm being serious." Cliffjumper huffed. Bumblebee obliged him by shutting up. "No matter what, okay? We're family. And family always sticks together."

Bumblebee grinned at him. "Even when we do stupid things?"

" _Especially_ when we do stupid things," Cliffjumper retorted. "Why do you think we still put up with Smokey?"

"Because he's family. And family always sticks together."

"No matter what," Cliffjumper repeated firmly. Bumblebee smiled brilliantly at him, his optics glowing with warmth.

"Thank you," he said softly.

Cliffjumper huffed again, but a tiny smile teased the corner of his lips. "Start your recharge. I'm completely fragged and you obviously are too; you're asking such stupid questions."


	5. The Spooky Forest

It was a dark and stormy night.

Smokescreen cursed as he jolted over an unseen organic growth in his path. It was near impossible to see anything in all of this muck. The rain was coming down full force even through the overshadowing trees and the road seemed nothing but ruts and mud and growing things. It was an altogether unsatisfactory situation, and he was tempted to turn around and head right back out.

But, slag it, this was supposed to be a short-cut, and there was no way he was just going to give up now.

It had all seemed so simple when he'd thought of it. He was running late; he'd spent too much time in the city with too little to show for it. But he'd thought for sure that a few judicious speculations would bolster the meager earnings that he'd made through his regular trade channels. As it stood now, he'd barely made enough to cover costs. Cliffjumper was not going to be impressed. As a result, Smokescreen figured it would be best to get home as quickly as possible to give his younger brother one less thing to carp about. Hence, his fantastic idea to use the Old Road to cut through the Forest.

In retrospect, the idea no longer seemed quite so fantastic. He was cold and hungry and his paintjob was shot to the Pit. He could feel bits of organic growth stuck in his joints and undercarriage. He was sure he had to be at least halfway through the Forest and the idea of turning around and slogging through it all again was hard to contemplate. And finally, the storm that had swept up out of nowhere didn't seem to want to stop anytime soon.

It was the last bit that was really getting to him. The fury of the storm seemed something out of legend and Smokescreen knew that he should probably find shelter. All he needed was for lightning to strike one of the massive trees lining the road and for it to come crashing down. Given his luck lately, it would come down through his roof.

The trees started to thin out and Smokescreen started to hope. But nothing prepared him for what he saw next. At first, he was certain it was some sort of a mirage brought on by exhaustion. But as he got closer and the seeming specter seemed only to solidify, Smokescreen realized that it was real.

There was a Tower in the middle of the Forest.

Smokescreen couldn't think of anyone building a Tower – a symbol of the elite and noble and wealthy that practically screamed 'civilization' – in the middle of the Forest, but the evidence couldn't lie. It was a Tower; tall and dark against the stormy sky despite the wind and rain. It was surrounded by a tall iron fence but the gate was open, creaking something fierce as the wind battered against it. Beyond the fence, a vast crystal garden glittered in the rain, lit up every so often by a flash of lightning.

Bizarre placement or not, it was solid and real and Smokescreen swore he could see bits of light peeking through windows higher up. By this point, he didn't care if it was abandoned and falling apart or if was inhabited by wild organics. If it got him out of the rain, he'd put up with anything.

With renewed determination, Smokescreen turned down the path leading towards the gate.


	6. A Guest in the Tower

The entrance to the Tower held some shelter in the form of a wide overhang, but it was still bitterly cold. Smokescreen revved his engine in an effort to warm himself up, and then transformed to root mode. Mud and rain dripped down on to the clean stone porch and he winced at the mess. _Hopefully whoever owns this place isn't too upset with the mess,_ he mused to himself. Well, it couldn't be helped now.

He raised his hand to knock on the overly large doors, but to his surprise, they opened before him with the barest touch. "Hello?" he called cautiously. "Please excuse the interruption, but I was hoping to beg shelter…"

The double-doors opened wider and soft light poured forth from inside. It seemed that someone was home. Steeling himself, Smokescreen pushed the one of the doors wider and stepped inside.

"Over here, mech. An' close the door, will ya? No use lettin' the storm in with you."

Smokescreen started in surprise at the voice, his hand still on the door. He looked around the vast entrance hall warily, but there seemed to be no one present. Still, he did as the voice asked and pulled on the heavy door. It swung back towards him and he took a hasty step backwards as it shut with a low-voiced boom of finality.

"Come on in," the voice said, and Smokescreen found himself reassured by the friendliness in it despite his misgivings. He turned away from the door and took a hesitant step forward. The floor was smooth with a bright finish and undoubtedly expensive from the look of it, with beautiful patterns inlaid in the tile that were quickly becoming marred by the mud and water he was dripping all over it. "Don't worry 'bout the mess," the voice said, seemingly reading his mind. "It's easily cleaned. Come in where it's warm. You shouldn't stand in the door all night, it can't be comfortable."

"Thank you," Smokescreen finally said, his footfalls echoing heavily despite his careful steps. He winced at the squelching sounds his pedes made against the tiles. His gracious host may not mind the mud, but he was still making an awful mess. "Might I know whom I can thank for my timely rescue?" He paused in his inward trek, looking around almost helplessly. The room still seemed as empty as it had been to begin with. The voice, however, was immediately forthcoming.

"Down here!"

Smokescreen obediently looked down and then bit back a curse. There, standing on a polished table, stood a tiny figure no more than six inches tall. It looked like a toy model of a Transformer made out of plastic and paint, with tiny wheels on its shoulders and tiny decals stuck to its chassis.

It was also moving.

"Heya," the toy said, smiling up at him. "The name's Jazz. Welcome to our humble abode. 'S kinda big and drafty, but at least it's out of the rain, right?"

"Guh," Smokescreen said intelligently.


	7. Jazz's Plan

The begrimed and waterlogged mech had been sluiced down and then ensconced within a well-lit den with heating blankets and warmed energon in a flurry of action while he was still gaping. Jazz waved his stammering thanks with a negligent hand.

"Hey mech, no problem. You're a guest here, and we always try to treat our guests right. You just sit tight and warm up, okay? I'll be back in a bit to see how you're doing."

"Thank you," Smokescreen said again. "I really appreciate all of this. I'm not sure how I can repay you…"

Jazz smiled and waved him off again before leaving him to his solitude.

 

When he left the room, his counterpart was waiting for him.

"I would strongly advice against this course of action," Prowl said flatly. Which, in Prowl-speak, meant "are you out of your processor, you malfunctioning box of spare parts".

It was nice how well they knew each other after all these vorns.

"What, you think we should just leave the poor sod out in all that?" Jazz waved a hand towards the windows, which clearly displayed the fury of the storm. Prowl grimaced.

"Well, no, of course not. But we ought to at least be discreet about it. You know how the Master gets on nights like these…and the circumstances of the mech's arrival are not unlike That Night."

Jazz waved him off. "Yeah, yeah. But that's all the more reason to treat our guest right!"

Prowl paused and then frowned at him. "You're scheming something."

Jazz gave him his best innocent look. "Me? I don't know what you're talking about. Is it so strange to you that I would seek to make our guest comfortable?"

"Yes."

"Ouch. That hurts, Prowler."

"Don't call me that, and don't try to sidetrack me. What are you plotting?"

"Look, I love my job." Jazz said. "But I can't help but feel some dissatisfaction in the current state o' affairs."

"You mean the fact that we are currently no better than playthings in size and general construction?"

"Yeah, and the fact that _we have no interface ports._ "

"Yes," Prowl said blandly, "I noticed that, too."

"I haven't gotten any in nine vorns an' I'm sick of it."

"I am glad to see that you have your priorities straight. What does that have to do with our...'guest'?"

"You don't think it's strange that we've had no company in nine vorns and then suddenly, bam! Someone shows up on our doorstep in the middle of a storm? Just like That Night?"

"Not particularly. We're located in the middle of an overgrown abandoned forest. There are no other habitations. It is highly unlikely that anyone would come through this forest, hence us not receiving guests in the past."

"But someone did."

"Which argues well for his intelligence." The sarcasm was not lost on Jazz, who grinned.

"Smart or not, we got ourselves a ticket back to our bodies, don't you think?"

Prowl folded his arms and cocked his helm to the side. Skeptically, he said, "No, I don't. You don't _actually_ think that this mech could possibly…"

"Nope, I don't. But don't worry," Jazz said, smiling. "I got a _plan."_

"That's what I am afraid of."


	8. I won't even be mildly remorseful

Smokescreen awoke from recharge the next cycle dazed, disoriented, and with a Prime-sized processor-ache. He switched on his optics groggily and then immediately switched them back off, groaning at the far-too bright light that seemed to be cheerfully trying to eviscerate his optics.

“Oh, good,” a chipper voice said from somewhere to his right, “you’re awake.”

Smokescreen tried to reply to this intelligently but all that came out was “light g’way.” The voice chuckled and Smokescreen briefly and vehemently hated the amused disembodied stranger. He thought about powering on his optics to tell him so but the ache in his processor decided him otherwise.

“Nope, sorry,” the voice said. “No can do. We need t’ talk about last night.”

Last night. Smokescreen frowned, trying to remember. There had been…rain? Lots of rain. And thunder. And a tall, tall tower, out in the middle of nowhere. He slowly switched his optics back on. He was in a small but lushly appointed room, with one wall that seemed to be made up entirely of small diamond shaped windows that were letting in far, far too much light. His ‘berth’ was in fact a comfortable chaise in muted golds, and the sleek silver table beside him bore a familiar-looking black and white toy figure.

The ‘toy’ smiled at him. “Heya,” said the disgustingly chipper voice. “Remember me?”

“Uh.” Smokescreen thought hard through the haze. “Jazz?”

“Bingo!” Jazz said gleefully. He leapt across the distance between the table and chaise to land gracefully beside Smokescreen’s head. “Didja have a good recharge?”

“I feel like I got hit by a gestalt,” Smokescreen admitted honestly. Jazz chuckled, but he gave Smokescreen a sympathetic pat, so Smokescreen forgave him. Mostly.

“Can you remember much of last night?” Jazz asked. Smokescreen frowned in thought.

“Poker?”

“You do remember!”

 

_Jazz had returned awhile ago, with something a little stronger than warmed energon. “It’ll take the chill off,” he’d said, and Smokescreen accepted the high grade gratefully. It had helped, a lot, and now Smokescreen was feeling comfortably buzzed. They had counters scattered between them and a good game of poker going. Smokescreen would have felt guilty about what he’d lost so far, but he was sure he could get it all back. All he needed was this one hand, and a bet to equal it._

_“Okay,” Smokescreen said recklessly with a sharp grin as he fanned his perfect hand of chips, “Okay. I got a bet. It’s a great bet.”_

_Jazz just smiled back, his own chips held up almost vertically in a plastic trench in front of him. “Oh yeah?” he said with an amused air, “’cause I coulda sworn you just bet the last of your goods, and all your cash before that.”_

_“I still have something. It’s an excellent something; worth far more than any goods or paltry sum of currency.”_

_“Big talk,” Jazz taunted, “but is that all it is?”_

_“No talk,” Smokescreen replied grandly. “I bet **myself**.”_

 

“Oh, slag.” Smokescreen said, suddenly and completely awake and sober. “CJ is going to kill me.”


	9. Picture This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron has a proposal for Cliffjumper.

The next day dawned clear and bright, with only the clean, rain-washed streets to stand as testimony of the ferocity of the storm.  But Cliffjumper, who’d only stepped out to pick up some essentials for the evening’s meal, wasn’t able to appreciate it at all, as Megatron loomed over him as he pontificated about the importance of his job as a Hunter, with Starscream lurking nearby.

Ugh.  Cliffjumper knew Hunters were important – every town near a forested area had to have one by order of the Prime – but something about the way Megatron went about it just rubbed him wrong.  Taking down the dangerous beasts that threatened Spark and frame of his nearest and dearest; well, he’d do that in a sparkpulse, Hunter or not.  But Megatron would often head off into the forest on ‘cleansing runs’ in which he’d endeavor to clear the patch of Forest closest to town of as many organics – dangerous or not – as he could, sanctimoniously explaining that it was his duty as a properly-trained Hunter.  If being a Hunter meant hunting down harmless creatures that never did anyone any damage, Cliffjumper didn’t want any part of it.

He was just about to make a hasty excuse or six and make his escape when Megatron said something that nearly made him short circuit.

“And so, I would make you my apprentice,” Megatron offered magnanimously.

“What?” Starscream screeched.  “You can’t – that’s not –!”

“Shut up, Starscream.”

“But I don’t _want_ to be a Hunter!” Cliffjumper blurted.  Megatron’s optics darkened.

“ _What_?”

“You see, Megatron?  The twerp is clearly aware of his low grade status and – _ow!_ ”

“Shut _up_ , Starscream.”  Megatron snarled, and Starscream backed prudently out of reach of another smack.  “What do you mean you don’t want to be a Hunter?  Surely you are aware of the honor I am affording you here.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want it,” Cliffjumper retorted.  “Besides, Smokey’s gonna introduce me to some of his contacts, and…”

Starscream cackled shrilly. “A Trader?  You?” he asked derisively.  Megatron chuckled in agreement, and Starscream went on.  “Besides, your brother isn’t even a very good Trader.  _Everyone_ knows how he always gambles away all his profits.”

“Shove it up your exhaust pipe!” Cliffjumper snapped.  “My brother is—” Just what Smokescreen was, Cliffjumper never said, because he was interrupted by the shrill beeping of his comm. unit.  Cursing, he accessed the channel and opened the line, ignoring Starscream and Megatron’s laughter as he accepted the call.  “What?” he demanded, and then Bumblebee’ s frantic babbling penetrated his processor.  “Whoa, slow down, ‘Bee, _what’s_ wrong with Smokey?”

Starscream snickered.  “What _isn’t_ wrong with Smokescreen, you mean?”

Cliffjumper gave him a very rude gesture with his free hand and focused on Bumblebee’s voice.

 _::There’s a note,::_ Bumblebee explained.  _::It’s…oh, CJ, just come home, please!::_

“Calm down, I’m coming,” he told Bumblebee, and without another word to Starscream or Megatron, he transformed and peeled out of town as fast as his wheels would take him, the mocking laughter of his would-be teacher and teacher’s pet following his exhaust trail.


	10. So it’s time to take some action, boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A note is read and plans are drawn.

 

 

_To whom it may concern:_

_Greetings and salutations!  This note is merely to inform any interested parties that Smokescreen will not be able to return home as – due to a wager he himself placed – he now finds himself as an indentured servant to the Beast of the Forest.  Kindly forget about his existence and go on with your lives._

_Sincerely,_

_Jazz, Valet of the Chamber and Master of Ceremonies_   
_The Dark Tower_   
_Just off the Old Road_   
_Middle of the Forest_

 

Cliffjumper stared at the note in his hands.  An actual note on actual wood pulp paper – Primus below, who uses _wood-pulp paper_? – with looping purple script that shimmered silver, cheerfully at odds with its dark content.

“There’s a map on the back,” Bumblebee said quietly.  Cliffjumper flipped the paper over, and sure enough, there was a map of the forest with an X marked boldly in red somewhere near the middle.

“Well, that’s convenient,” Cliffjumper said.  He flipped the paper back to the text.  “’Kindly forget about his existence’, huh.”

“It’s probably a trap.”  Bumblebee paused, and then almost reluctantly added, “We should probably tell Megatron.”

Cliffjumper snorted.  “Or not,” he said flatly.  He put the paper down on the table and stalked over to his weapons cabinet, throwing the doors wide open.

“CJ, it’s talking about a beast.  Megatron _is_ the Hunter; he should know.”  Bumblebee picked up the note again, smoothing the paper between nervous hands.  “If something has Smokey…”

“There might be a beast,” Arcee said slowly, “but someone needed to write the note in the first place.  And…the note mentions a ‘wager’.”  She placed her palm on Bumblebee’s back strut and he leaned back against it, just a little.

“Sounds like Smokey got in over his head with his gambling.”  Cliffjumper pulled something sharp and shiny out of its drawer and snapped it into place over his forearm.  He grabbed its match and snapped it on to his other arm.  He flexed his arms once to ensure mobility and then went back into the drawer.

“And going by the map and directions, they’re willing to negotiate,” Arcee added.  “Cliffjumper, I know you’re worried, but you can’t just go rushing in guns blazing.”

“…would be easier,” Cliffjumper muttered from behind the steel doors.

“Maybe I should go,” she said.  “I can talk to this ‘Jazz’ and…”

“No, you can stay with ‘Bee and be the cavalry.”  Cliffjumper said, and slammed the door shut.  The hollow _thud_ reverberated around the room.  “If I don’t come back in three cycles, you can rouse Megatron and everyone then.”

“And come save your aft?” Arcee asked dryly.

Cliffjumper grinned at her.  “If you think you can,” he taunted.  “Just…don’t tell Megatron, all right?  This is a family thing.”

“Primus save me from prideful ‘bots,” Arcee sighed.  “Just be careful, all right?”

“And come back,” Bumblebee added.  “I want both you and Smokey at the Promising.”

“No matter what,” Cliffjumper swore. “You can even help me kick Smokey’s aft when I bring him home.”

“I’ll want in on that too,” Arcee said archly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used "French Script MT" in the note because it amused me. It is very loopy. Also, if I had anything larger than a 'Legends' class Jazz with me, I would have included a picture of him writing the note, but alas.


	11. And there's something truly terrible inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cliffjumper arrives at the Tower. It's...not what he was expecting.

The map had been easy enough to follow, although the road itself was slagged.  Still, he poured on the speed, and made the Tower gates in good time.  He barreled on through them, paying scant attention as they banged shut behind him, and continued on right up to the huge front doors, at which point he skidded to a stop, transforming as he went.  He raised a fist to bang on the door, but to his surprise, it opened before he made contact.

Cliffjumper willfully suppressed the urge to draw one of his guns and let his still clenched fist drop to his side as he warily walked inside.  “Smokey?”  The door quietly _snicked_ shut behind him, and he whirled around, a gun in his hand ready to fire but aimed low. 

“There is little point to leaving the door open and letting the outside in,” a voice said, clipped and professional, and Cliffjumper spun back around, his gun still cocked.  “Kindly put your weapon away; it is unnecessary.”

“Like the Pit it’s not,” Cliffjumper retorted.  “Where the frag are you?”

“Revealing my position to you while you are armed and agitated would be illogical,” the voice claimed, which…okay, yeah, it did kind of make sense.

“No funny business,” Cliffjumper warned, and then slowly subspaced his gun.

“Indeed,” the voice said calmly.  “If you would, please direct your attention to the table 2 meters forward and half a meter left from your position.”

Still wary, Cliffjumper stalked forward and left as directed, his optics tracking the room for anything suspicious.  Upon reaching the table, he realized there was a small toy figure painted white with black accents balanced in a standing position.  Its build was awfully similar to Smokescreen’s, with perfectly proportioned doorwings arching out from its back.

“Hello,” the toy said politely.  “I am the Seneschal of this Tower; my designation is Prowl.”

Cliffjumper gaped at it briefly.  Then he closed his mouth and cycled a deep draught of air through his intakes.  “Right.  A talking toy.  Why not?”

The toy – Prowl – regarded him serenely.  “You would be Cliffjumper, I gather.”

The urge to have the comforting weight of his cannon – or at least one of his guns – in his hands was very great.  “How do you know that?”

“Smokescreen had spoken of two brothers; given the basic data he revealed to us about them, it was more likely that if only one were to arrive, it would be the elder of the two.” Prowl said.  “It was only logical.”

“Where is my brother,” Cliffjumper said flatly. 

“Whoa,” another voice said, “didn’t know you could make bots forget how to use question marks, Prowler.  Heya, ‘Jumper.  Glad you made it here!”

A brief flicker of something flashed through Prowl’s tiny face, too quickly for Cliffjumper to grasp it.  “My counterpart, Jazz.” Prowl explained, gesturing to another black and white toy that was clambering up on to the table. 

“You!”

‘Jazz’ grinned and waved.  “Me!  You got here fast.  Guess the map was okay?”

“What the slag is the ‘Beast of the Forest’, then?  A house cat?” Cliffjumper blurted.

“That,” another voice said icily from the doorway to the inner chambers, “would be _me_.”


	12. An object of revulsion and derision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cliffjumper finally comes face to face with the Beast.

The Beast was…short.  He was about half Cliffjumper’s size and stood upright on two legs.  In fact, his entire body was eerily similar to that of a Transformer, save for that instead of good solid metal, he appeared to be entirely organic, covered in a soft-looking pale peach skin.  Some form of yellow filamentous organic stuff seemed to grow out of the top and back of his head, lankly framing his face, ending in a jagged cut that just brushed his shoulders.  He wore what appeared to be two very dirty gold-colored cleaning cloths, one draped over his thin, bony-looking shoulders to fall down his back, and the other tied closely around his hips.

But what was perhaps the most startling was the brightness of his eyes – a blue that looked more at home in a pair of optics than the irises of organic eyes.  They glowed in the dim light and did not seem to fit the small, pale face at all.  The effect was almost unsettling.

“Had a good look yet?” the little organic sneered. 

“I didn’t know organics could talk,” Cliffjumper said, still off kilter. 

The organic snorted air through his intakes – _through his nose_ , Cliffjumper thought irrelevantly.  “I didn’t know minibots were capable of processing at any speed.”  The organic folded his arms and smirked up at him.  “Guess I was right; they can’t.”

_Can’t blast him_ , Cliffjumper reminded himself, barely holding on to his temper.  _He’s small and squishy and I might kill him._   “If it’s the size that matters, I guess you’re only running on half speed,” Cliffjumper retorted.  On the table, Jazz covered his tiny faceplate with an equally tiny palm, and Prowl visibly twitched.

“And yet, I’m not the one who goes barreling into homes uninvited and unwanted,” the organic said triumphantly.  “This is my house: _so get out_.”

“I had an invitation.” Cliffjumper said, deadpan, and held out the note.

Smile sliding from his face, the organic stalked forward and snatched the note with both hands.  Up close, the organic was even more…organic-like, for lack of a better descriptor.  Cliffjumper could see the tiny imperfections in the pale skin and small thin blue lines that seemed to run beneath the surface.  The organic didn’t seem to notice Cliffjumper’s curiosity; instead focusing on the absurdly large piece of paper that was nearly half his size.  _Didn’t know organics could read, either,_ Cliffjumper thought, as the organic seemed to do exactly that, the irises of his eyes rapidly following the lines of text.  By the time he was finished, he was scowling, his lips twisted downwards and his bright eyes narrowed.

“ _Jazz_ ,” the organic growled.  He took a threatening step towards the table.

Jazz shifted backwards, his hands up defensively.  Beside him, Prowl stood calm, seemingly unconcerned with his tablemate’s plight.  “Aw, c’mon, Sunny,” Jazz started, smiling winningly.

“ _Don’t call me that!_ ”

“His brother has attained the position of your bodyguard, Master,” Prowl explained serenely.  “Jazz and I felt that such a hire would be beneficial.”

“He’s _what_?” Cliffjumper and the organic demanded simultaneously.


	13. Take Me Instead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cliffjumper cuts a deal.

A bodyguard?   _Smokey?_ “Are you out of your processor?”  Cliffjumper demanded.  “Why in the Pit would you want  _my brother_ as a bodyguard?”

“I don’t need a bodyguard!”  The organic huffed.  His pale skin seemed to be turning nearly as red as Cliffjumper’s paintjob.  His tiny hands formed into fists at his sides.  He was about as frightening as a scraplet.  “What in Primus’ name gives you the right to make such a hire in _my_ Tower?”

“The hiring of additional staff has always been the purview of the Seneschal, Master.”  Prowl said.  “The very fact that not one but two individuals made their way to the Tower--”

“Invitation,” Cliffjumper interjected, but no one seemed to pay him any mind.

“--Is clear evidence that the hire of someone outside our household will likely prove necessary.  Future visitors may not prove quite so benign.”  Despite his tiny size, Prowl seemed to be taller than anyone in the room at that moment.  “The smooth running of this Tower is my right as well as my duty.”  He said firmly.  _And I don’t want to hear another word against it,_ his posture seemed to say.  If it wasn’t a matter of his brother’s freedom on the line, Cliffjumper would have snickered.

“Still don’t need a bodyguard,” the organic muttered.  He continued to frown fiercely, but his skin seemed to be returning to its proper pale shade.  Prowl said nothing, but his silence was eloquent in and of itself.  For all that the organic seemed to be the ‘Master’ here it was obvious who was running the show.

“Smokey would make a horrible bodyguard,” Cliffjumper told Prowl.  “He’s not all that great in a fight; prefers to cut and run rather than stand and fight.  He’s easily distracted and he tends to trust his luck rather than any kind of plan.”  Cliffjumper folded his arms and glared Jazz and Prowl down.  “Smokey’s a trader.  You want him to cut deals, he’s your bot.  But guarding someone?  That’s way out of his expertise.  And I don’t know about you, but to me that don’t sound like any kind of deal at all.”

Jazz shrugged, seemingly unconcerned.  “Thems the breaks,” he said.  “He sold himself to us, and we don’t really need a trader.  A few cycles of hard labor and training oughta toughen him up.”

“And if it doesn’t?”  Cliffjumper demanded.

“What would you suggest?”  Prowl inquired mildly.

_Into the pit, I guess.  Sorry, ‘Bee.  Guess you’ll have to kick Smokey’s aft without me._ Cliffjumper jabbed at his chest plate with his thumb.  “Me.  Let him go, and I’ll stay in his place.”


End file.
